Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

They’d leave, but I always knew that they’d be back.

I found comfort in knowing they were there.

That has changed.

I realize that everyone has an expiration date, but loss turns a favorite color photo to black and white.

My sister Georgianna and my brother Donald died. One in Virginia, the other in Minnesota. I’ve heard kind thoughts from people filled with euphemisms for death such as: Passed away, kicked the bucket, gave up the ghost, bought the farm, got out of the canoe, checked out, bit the dust, crossed over, entered the sweet hereafter, resting in peace, slipped away, called home, gone to his or her reward, laid down his or her burden, is no longer with us, shuffled off this mortal coil, took a harp, answered God’s call, gone to eternal rest, met his or her maker, keeled over, left the building, caught the last train, pushing up daisies, knocking on the pearly gates, singing with the heavenly choir, took the big bus, at peace, and with the angels.

The phrase “crossing over” reminds me of a walk in Texas. I came to a river, but couldn’t see a bridge crossing it. There was a birder on the other side. I shouted in his direction, “How do I get to the other side?”

The man looked up and down the river before yelling back, “You are on the other side.”

Georgianna and Donald found a bridge.

I looked at memory-producing photographs of the two. At my wake, I want photos of Robert Redford displayed and labeled as being me. I don’t want anyone taking a peek in my casket and saying that I looked good. I want them to see that I’d worn out. I want my last words to be, “You’ll find the million dollars hidden at…”

My siblings were cremated. They look good in my memories.

They were tough acts to follow.

Georgianna was the class-president, valedictorian kind. She was nice. I can be nice, too, but I have to work at it. It came naturally to her. She worked for six companies without changing jobs. The business kept being sold.

Donald owned Hartland Farm Equipment and was a fixer of everything. I’m a writer. The only things I can fix are punctuation and spelling, and I don’t always get those right.

Donald’s middle name was Keith, but when Glenda, before they married, asked him what his middle initial K stood for, he told her that it was for Ebenezer with a silent k. She asked him why he didn’t say “I love you” as often as she did. He replied, “I told you once that I loved you and nothing has changed.”

When leaving home for a day, Donald told his son Neal, “No fighting while I’m gone.”

Neal was home alone.

We understand death without fully understanding. I recall the words of God, played by George Burns in the 1977 movie, “Oh, God,” who said, “I know how hard it is in these times to have faith. But maybe if you could have the faith to start with, maybe the times would change. You could change them. Think about it. Try. And try not to hurt each other. There’s been enough of that. It really gets in the way.” And God added, “However hopeless, helpless, mixed up and scary it all gets, it can work. If you find it hard to believe in me, maybe it would help you to know that I believe in you.”

I’ve said goodbye in many ways to my siblings. We all have little tricks that help us get through life. Goodbyes aren’t easy. That’s why we say: All right then, see you later, I don’t imagine my chores are going to do themselves, have a good one, I can’t think of anything else I need to tell you, take care, and I suppose. I favor “I suppose,” but others prefer the extended version, “Well, I suppose.”

We have the Minnesota goodbye. One that is dragged out until it’s worn out. We say goodbye in the house, in the porch, at the door, on the sidewalk and at the car, to the same person. It takes only a minute to say hello, but it takes forever to say goodbye.

All days aren’t sunny. Grandma Batt told me that bad things happen in threes. They did. Georgianna died. Donald died. I hurt. That’s three.

I know that good things happen at least in twos.

I know because I was blessed by having a sister named Georgianna and a brother named Donald.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.